Mon Amie
by Max Alleyne
Summary: She was too thin, but didn't come across as fragile. Instead, she radiated strength. She was an acquaintance of Courfeyrac's, a prostitute, a scholar, and a defender of the weak. Combeferre/OFC


**A/N: **So, this is my first Les Mis fic. It's going to be a bit AU, following Combeferre and an OFC through the events of the story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Please review and let me know what you think so that I can fix any errors or improve my writing. Thanks!

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"Combeferre, my friend, it's your birthday! You need to enjoy yourself!" Courfeyrac said, throwing his arm around his friend as they walked into the street. "You're so serious all the time."

"Courfeyrac, consider the world around us. Think of our cause. There's no time for frivolity," Combeferre replied seriously. He didn't try to remove his friend's hand from off his shoulder, mostly because Courfeyrac had had one drink too many and wasn't going to be able to walk upright for some time.

"That's why you have to make time for 'frivolity.' If you didn't spend so much time with your nose buried in your philosophy books, you would have time! When was the last time you had a woman?"

Luckily for Combeferre, the sun had long since set and darkness had fallen across the city, keeping his friends from seeing the blush that was spreading across his cheeks. It was the question that seemed to plague him more than any other—especially from Courfeyrac. It was not that he did not want to meet a nice girl—as his mother would say—it was just that there was no time. Between _les amis de le ABC _and his courses at the university, there was no time for courting.

"That is none of anyone's concern," he told his friend, trying to divert the question. "Just because you're open with the favors women bestow on you does not mean that everyone else has to be."

"Besides, it's not a favor if you're paying for it," Feuilly teased. Courfeyrac grinned broadly—more from the wine than the joke. He looked to Combeferre, who had also had his fair share of wine, though not nearly as much as his friend, and wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

"Well, _mon ami_, you have gone too long without female favors. It makes you cranky. You're far too serious—too much time around Enjolras has robbed you of your sense of humor."

"We talk of serious things—there is no place for humor in a revolution," Combeferre said in defense of himself.

"Our drunken friend is not entirely wrong, Combeferre. I can't remember the last time you laughed," Feuilly chimed in.

"It's my birthday! Have mercy!" Combeferre asked, throwing his arms up in front of his face. He stumbled off balance, and Courfeyrac tried to catch him, but instead, they both ended up in a heap on the ground. Feuilly laughed and helped them up, and they continued to wander towards Combeferre's favorite café. The walk took much longer than it should have, mostly because Courfeyrac was staggering drunk.

"Combeferre, we've been expecting you. A little bird told me that today was your birthday," the young woman in the café said, her voice low and throaty in an attempt to sound seductive. Instead, she sounded more like she had consumption—which was also likely. He smiled at her—the genuine smile that he would have given a younger sibling—and she smiled back timidly.

"Indeed it is! Some of your best wine, please!" Courfeyrac said, falling into a chair and looking around the room. The other people in the café glanced at him and laughed. Most of the clientele knew _les amis de la ABC_, and Combeferre recognized the majority of the patrons sitting in the café. They all shared the same look— too thin, clothes that had been patched and repatched, bare feet, and slightly dirt—and each instance of it broke his heart.

They settled into their table—the one tucked back into the corner of the room near the back exit—and poured themselves a glass of wine. Combeferre and Feuilly sat back and relaxed, though it was hard with such extreme poverty before them. Courfeyrac sat in his chair, staring anxiously out the front window of the café.

"What's wrong, Courfeyrac? Waiting for Death to catch up with us?" Feuilly laughed.

"_Non, _though it will catch up with us soon enough, I'm sure," he replied, though he continued to look out the front window. Moments later, he smiled broadly—more broadly than before—as a young woman walked through the door. "Though she, my friend, can introduce you to the little death."

She wasn't beautiful, not really. She was too thin, as most women in this area of Paris were. She was wearing a cap to hide her hair, but even so, she could never be mistaken for a man. Her features were more interesting than beautiful. Her nose had been broken once or twice from the looks of things. Her lips were slightly plump, but chapped. As she neared their table, she pulled off her coat and hat and handed it to a child who didn't have one. Her hair spilled down her back. It was long and dull, but still a lovely, natural shade of red.

"Amie!" Courfeyrac tried to stand to greet her, but instead fell back into his chair. He opened his arms wide to embrace her, but she just stood there, a single eyebrow arched skeptically. "This is Feuilly and Combeferre. "

"And where are the rest of heroes? The ones who are going to change the world?" she asked, eyeing the fairly empty table. Combeferre caught the skeptical edge in her voice, and narrowed his eyes.

"We will change the world—" he started.

"Of course you will. Because sitting around and talking about Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle is going to change the world," she shot back, her eyes glinting playfully. It was obvious to all that she was thoroughly enjoying the argument. At the mention of the famous philosophers, Combeferre eyed her curiously.

"You know philosophy?"

"Socrates, Aristotle, Aquinas, Kant…yes, I know philosophy," she said, settling herself onto his lap. A blush spread across his cheeks as he felt his body respond to her—and it did not help that Courfeyrac was watching the entire thing with extreme interest. The look on his face was all too familiar. It was that look he got when he was trying to gauge how his plan was going over. Then it hit him: Courfeyrac had set him up. He looked at the girl sitting on his lap.

"Courfeyrac set this up, didn't he?" he asked her. She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.

"He said that you might enjoy my company…and it's already paid for." His reaction was immediate and obvious. Curiosity was there—how would a prostitute know philosophy?—and so was pity. He wanted to keep her with him, to talk about philosophy, to figure out what she knew and how she knew it. But then he pitied her—how could he take advantage of a girl who was clearly just getting by? Upon seeing the pity, she immediately stood and began rummaging through her bag.

She pulled out the money that Courfeyrac had slipped her when they struck their deal and set it on the table in front of him, anger and annoyance in her eyes. "Nothing kills the mood like a man who pities me."

"Amie..."

"Take your money and get him a real birthday present," she said, and stalked out of the café. Courfeyrac sat still in drunken shock, unable to move fast enough to catch up with her. Combeferre grabbed the money off the table and tore off down the street in pursuit of Amie.

"Amie!" She didn't stop. "Amie!" She whirled on him, fury written all over her features.

"I don't need your pity," she spat, hands on her hips, standing her ground.

"Perhaps not, but you do need a coat. You gave yours to that little girl," he said calmly, holding out the money that Courfeyrac had paid her earlier. She eyed him distrustfully and didn't move. His face softened as he realized just how young she looked. She was his age, maybe younger. If she had been at the trade long, he knew that she was lucky to still be alive.

"I can buy a new one tomorrow. Take your money and give it to someone who needs it," she said. "That little girl hasn't eaten today. Her parents haven't eaten in two days so that she can. Courfeyrac tells me that you want to make a difference. Give them the money. Make a difference for them."

"Are they going to take my charity as well as you are?" he asked.

"They have to. They need to eat." She turned to walk away, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. All traces of pity were gone from his face, and instead there was something else there—something she couldn't place. "What?"

"They'll take it better from you. They know you," Combeferre said, handing her the money. She nodded and walked back into the café. He stood outside the door, wondering about this woman. It was obvious that she did need the money—her dress was in better shape than some, but it was freezing outside and the material was thin. She was too thin, but didn't come across as fragile. Instead, she radiated strength. She was an acquaintance of Courfeyrac's, a prostitute, a scholar, and a defender of the weak. He watched as she slipped the money into the mother's hand, whispering into her ear. Tears streamed down her cheeks, a smile on her face. Amie smiled gently at them and slipped quietly out the door.

"That is a difference. Kant may be a great writer, and a great philosopher, and I believe that he is right…but Kant doesn't feed hungry children," she whispered as she stood beside him. She studied his expression, and no longer saw any of the earlier pity there. Instead, she saw wonder and curiosity.

"How much did Courfeyrac pay you?" His words were only a whisper, but they might as well have been screams. She studied him intently.

"Two francs…apparently, my reputation precedes me," she answered with a grin. He reached into his pockets and pulled out his purse, searching for the correct change.

"We could…I have the money…" He couldn't seem to find the right words for what he was trying to say. Propositioning prostitutes was not exactly something that he did on a regular basis, and was not something that he had ever planned on doing in his life. She smiled and took mercy on him, putting an end to his mumbling with a finger over his lips.

"It's your birthday. I couldn't take your money on your birthday," Amie said. He smiled at her and took her hand in his. The touch caught her off guard. She was used to customers throwing an arm over her shoulder or around her waist—marking her as theirs, at least for the night—but they were never gentle about it. Combeferre's hands were soft and gentle, so different from her calloused ones. He touched her cheek tenderly.

"Would you like to come back to my rooms? I thought that perhaps we could talk about Kant," he said quietly.

"From what Courfeyrac tells me, your group prefers the classics." Her voice was quiet, almost timid.

"Who do you prefer?"

"Kant."

"Then we'll talk about Kant," he answered, lightly kissing her knuckles as they made their way towards his rooms.


End file.
